It was a hard parting,—harder, perhaps, than it had been before; and many another word had to be spoken and many another kiss to be taken ere they could separate. Sister Agatha was no restraint upon them, and, to say sooth, entered into their feelings with sympathies not altogether consistent with her vows. What they said she could not understand, for they spoke in English; and, though she had a certain portion of French and a good deal more of Italian, the rich Anglo-Saxon tongue was to the good old soul a most harsh and un-intelligible jargon, and she wondered that such pretty lips as Lucette's could pronounce the hideous sounds. The five minutes were lengthened to half an hour after her arrival, for Lucette felt she was breaking no promise when the person to whom it had been made was present and not an unconsenting party; but in the end Sister Agatha insisted that they should part, asking Lucette in a reproachful tone if she would kill the poor young man.
"I have been selfish," said Lucette, rising from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting; and, kissing him once more, with a long, tender, lingering kiss, she left him.
Thus they parted, not to meet again for a longer period than they anticipated. They could hardly be said to have seen each other, for Sister Agatha had left her lamp at the door, and the ray of moonlight which Lucette had let in was very faint; but that interview, short as it had been, was something for memory to fix upon during many months.
The first effect upon Edward Langdale was what Sister Agatha had dreaded. It had agitated him much, and for more than one hour after Lucette had left him his heart beat and his brain throbbed, and sleep deserted him as if she never would return. But the reaction was balmy. He had met her again; he had held her in his arms; he had tasted once more the honey of her lips; and there was a sort of superstitious feeling about him as if a bad spell had been broken. He had felt a dread till then that some old rhyme he had heard in his young days was to be verified in his own case. It was somewhat to the following effect, though I know not if memory retains it rightly:—
"They had met, they had loved, they had parted, And met no more till both were broken-hearted."
It had haunted him, that old distich, ever since he left Lucette under the care of the Duc de Rohan; but now the vision was dispelled. They had met again, and his Lucette loved him still as warmly, fondly, as he could wish. It was a dexter omen; and, with more faith than ever Roman augur possessed, he interpreted it to forebode future happiness. Joy, however, is wakeful as well as sorrow; and, even after the first effect of agitation and excitement had passed away, he lay sleepless and thoughtful, but very, very happy. He remembered many a word he could have wished to have uttered, many a question he would willingly have asked; but the great question of the heart was answered. She loved him still unchanged; and Edward was at a time of life when hope and trust were sure to rise out of such assurance. Gradually fatigue and exhaustion did their work upon the body, and, through the body, upon the mind. Had there been trouble in the spirit, he might, and probably would, have slept a few minutes, from mere weariness, to wake speedily with irritation, if not fever. But the heart was at rest; and as soon as his eyes closed he slept like a wearied but happy child, calmly, profoundly, long, and only woke some three hours after every other person in the abbey. His look was relieved, his color better, his eyes more bright. During that night he had made the first rapid stride toward convalescence.
Oh, if physicians would but take pains to discover whether the malady lies most in the mind or the body, what cures might be performed!—if they could but find the medicine! But happiness is a mithridate so compound and so fine that, search over the world, you will find few places where it can be procured, and never—alas! never—pure and unadulterated. That villanous serpent has left his slime on every thing.
The whole day Edward Langdale waited impatiently for the return of Lord Montagu; but he waited in vain: Lord Montagu did not appear. Another and another day passed: still he was absent. Young men calculate not the many impediments which lie between design and performance. "He could easily do this; he might easily have done that," is the constant cry; when in truth it would have been impossible for the person spoken of to have done any thing more than he did do. The smallest thing in the world overthrows the grandest scheme, frustrates the most positive assurance. Is it accident,—that refuge of the destitute? Is it not rather the quiet intervention of that ruling Power which, foreseeing all man's acts, bends the results to the accomplishment of his own predetermined purposes?
Edward Langdale was impatient. Strength was returning fast: when he coughed, his handkerchief came from his lips unstained with blood; his wound was nearly healed, and he longed to pursue his career of active exertion. But he did not know that the Duke of Savoy had been out to kill deer in the mountains, and that Lord Montagu was forced to wait his return. In the mean time, however, he rose earlier each day. He went out; he roamed round the abbey; he visited the city; and the only thing which retarded his complete recovery was his impatience. He was eager to get on,—too eager. He had always been too eager; but there was a great difference between his eagerness now and that of former years. Hitherto he had been moved only by the vague, aspiring hope of youth,—so often disappointed till the frost of age and the chill of adversity have withered the plant and blighted the flower and destroyed the fruit under the bud,—the hope of doing some-thing great in life. Now he had a more definite object, a clearer purpose. It was Lucette.